Harry Potter and the Journey Across Time
by Evanne Martine Hall
Summary: Voldemort has a plan to get rid of the meddling Trio . . . without laying a hand (or wand) on them. He has created a device that sends them on a trip across time, having them fighting for their lives . . .
1. Screwing with Time

Ch. 1: Screwing with Time  
  
  
  
  
  
"Don't you love Muggle cinema?" said Hermione. "The big screen, the good-looking actors. What more could you ask for?"  
  
Hermione wrapped her coat closer around herself. It was the end of December - nearing the end of their Christmas holidays. They would be returning to Hogwarts by way of Floo powder in the morning. Ron, Hermione, and Harry had spent the past week in Muggle London, having the most fun they had ever had. They were returning to the Leaky Cauldron after seeing the new movie, "Titanic." There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, and the three of them were walking closely together, Muggle coats wrapped closely around themselves. Hermione linked her arm through Ron's on her left side, and through Harry's on her right.  
  
"Perhaps a more believable plot line," said Ron. Hermione stopped dead.  
  
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "The Titanic wreck is one of the greatest tragedies in history, and you're telling me this plot line wasn't believable?"  
  
"I mean," said Ron, "About the first class girl falling in love with the third class boy. Things like that just don't happen." He turned and started walking away. Hermione tilted her head a little and narrowed her eyes.  
  
"I know what this is about," she said. "I know what this is about!"  
  
"Please, enlighten us," said Harry.  
  
"This is about that Ravenclaw girl, isn't it?" she asked, making her question more rhetorical than anything. She maneuvered so that she was walking backwards in front of Ron, shaking her finger in his face. "This is about that Ravenclaw girl!"  
  
Ron shook his head and stepped around her. "No, it isn't," he said.  
  
"What Ravenclaw girl?" asked Harry.  
  
"There is no Ravenclaw girl," said Ron, still walking. The other two trotted to keep up with his long strides.  
  
"Yes there is," said Hermione, "You said she's really pretty, and may just be the smartest girl in the school. She's a Ravenclaw."  
  
Ron didn't say anything. Hermione had jumped to her own conclusions yet again. There was no Ravenclaw girl. The smart, pretty one he had been referencing to was Hermione. But he wasn't going to say that.  
  
The truth was that he really did feel inadequate around her. He felt like he didn't deserve her. After all, she had come from a family with money, she was beautiful, and she was smart. She couldn't be any further above him if she were on a broomstick.  
  
"No, there is no Ravenclaw girl," repeated Ron. "Can we just get back to the Leaky Cauldron?"  
  
  
  
Once the three friends had returned to their rooms, Ron tried to sleep. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about the film they had just seen. It was ridiculous, he thought, turning over and burying his head in his pillow. It was a movie. Pretend. Things like that don't happen in real life.  
  
Eventually, Ron tossed himself into a fitful sleep, dreaming strange dreams.  
  
  
  
Hermione couldn't sleep. She was so sure she had been right. Actually, she knew she was right. There was a girl. And she had to be a Ravenclaw. It was all there. The looks, the intelligence . . . if she wasn't a Ravenclaw, then she should be.  
  
Hermione leaned on her bureau, gazing into the mirror above it. She sighed and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.  
  
"You're really quite pretty," her mirror said. "You should try sometimes, you know?" Hermione stuck her tongue out (immature, she knew) at the mirror and went back to bed.  
  
"I was just trying to be helpful," said the mirror. Hermione threw herself down on the bed. She would be lucky to sleep that night.  
  
  
  
Harry folded the piece of parchment up, poured melted wax from his scarlet candle onto the edge of the parchment to seal it, pressed the flattest object he had near him into it (it just happened to be a small knut), and flipped it back over. He scrawled "S.B." across the front and tied it to Hedwig's leg.  
  
"Please find him for me, girl," he said, stroking her head affectionately. She nipped his finger gently, then took off into the night.  
  
Harry watched her go, a bit melancholy. Hedwig was the only girl in his life that loved him. Hermione was his friend, sure, but he didn't really have anyone. He needed that kind of affection more than anyone knew.  
  
Perhaps it was because he had never had the love of a mother. Maybe he was just the sappy romantic type. Whatever it was, the desire was there. It just seemed that he hadn't really met anyone yet. He sighed. Maybe I'll dream about her, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ah, they're finally asleep, Wormtail," said Voldemort, his fingers twirling over a small crystal ball.  
  
"M-m-my lord," stammered Wormtail, "D-d-do y-you want th-the-"  
  
"Bring me the hourglass, imbecile," hissed Voldemort, a little too calmly for Wormtail's liking. He retrieved the large hourglass, however, and took it to his master.  
  
"Excellent," breathed Voldemort, stroking the object in his hands. Wormtail waited expectantly. Voldemort dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I'll torture you later, Wormtail. I'm too busy to concern myself with fun." Wormtail bowed and went hastily from the room. He wasn't going to miss his chance on being set free from a punishment.  
  
"Not that this won't be fun," said Voldemort to himself. He stroked the hourglass again, and the sand inside began to swirl. Numbers appeared within it, turning backwards.  
  
1990 . . . 1980 . . . 1970 . . . Voldemort's eyes began to expand with pleasure as they numbers turned back faster and faster, finally stopping on his predestined date. The sand settled down at the bottom of the hourglass.  
  
"Perfect," he said, carefully placing the hourglass on a shelf, drawing his long fingers back slowly. "Now to perform the spell."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry shot straight up in bed, the pain in his scar jolting him from a deep sleep. He took one look around him and drew in a sharp breath.  
  
"Where the hell am I?" he asked. 


	2. A Titanic Mistake

Disclaimer: Don't own squat. Don't sue.  
  
  
  
Ch. 2: A "Titanic" Mistake  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry looked around again. He was in a small white room, with two bunk beds, one on each of the side walls. A small, round window was set in the back wall. It was rimmed with gold, and the view was of a blue sky above a blue ocean. He was on a ship. He threw back the covers on his legs and gasped when he saw his legs. Instead of wearing the red silk boxers and Weasley sweater he had gone to bed in, he was suddenly wearing long, blue and white striped pajamas that didn't really seem to fit him. He climbed down off the top bunk he had awoken in and searched for his clothes. A trunk labeled "HP" sat against the back wall of the room, and he opened it to find not his normal wizarding robes or even Muggle clothes, but period pieces from the 1910's.  
  
"What is going on?" he asked, searching through the clothes for anything normal. Finally deciding that those clothes were better than pajamas all day, he changed quickly into a pair of dark brown trousers (a bit too short for him, hanging just above his ankles), a white shirt, a pair of khaki suspenders, and a gray "Oliver Twist"-type hat he happened upon on the top of the clothes. He slipped on some triangle-patterned socks and then slipped his feet inside the worn leather boots beside his trunk that he could only assume would be his. He tied them quickly, then stood and glanced around at the other three people in his room. Two were men, one blonde, and one brown-haired. The occupant below his bed was a woman, with long, strawberry blonde hair. None of them were his friends.  
  
He hurried out into the hallway. It was lined with carpet, and had very pretty electric fixtures lighting it. He found his way to a stairwell and began to climb. How he was going to find Ron and Hermione, if they were even there with him, was beyond him.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione stretched and yawned. She had slept. She didn't even think she could have, but here she was, in the comfortable bed she had fallen asleep in. But . . . wait. What was that smell? That wasn't the way the Leaky Cauldron smelled. It was like . . . perfume. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes and let out a scream.  
  
She was in a room furnished for two, with an old-fashioned basin and wash table and an antique chest-of-drawers. There was an ornate mirror over the sink, one of the vintage, gilded kinds. There was also a white wardrobe standing across from her bed. The bed itself was covered with a white lacy quilt and white cotton sheets. A door was ajar on the wall opposite her, and it held a porcelain bathtub. Ornate light fixtures illuminated the room.  
  
Slowly, cautiously, Hermione pushed the covers off of her legs. She was wearing a white flannel nightgown, adorned with ruffles on the collar and at her wrists. A pair of brown house shoes sat beside her bed.  
  
"I think I know where I am," she said to herself, getting out of bed and slipping on the house shoes. She went to the wardrobe and opened the doors, just to test her theory. The clothes that greeted her confirmed her suspicions.  
  
"Edwardian," she said, sifting through the many dresses hanging in the wardrobe. Deciding she may as well dress and go look for the boys (if they were there), she took out a yellow, calf-length tea dress, proper undergarments, white stockings, and black mary-janes and proceeded to put them on. She struggled with the buttons on her dress, until she realized what she was missing.  
  
A white piece of . . . something lay in one of the drawers in which she had found her knickers. It was a corset, that was made to be laced in front. She quickly put it on, pulling the strings as tight as they would go. She then put on the dress as quickly as was possible with the many tiny back buttons, and went out of her door onto a promenade deck.  
  
People looked at her strangely, and Hermione realized that she hadn't done her hair. But she didn't really care. She set out quickly, searching for Ron and Harry, wondering where (or when) on Earth they could be.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mr. Weasley, please, you have missed your breakfast." Ron's eyes opened with a jolt. That wasn't Hermione's voice, and it definitely wasn't male. A small blonde was standing beside his bed, her back turned to him, wearing a black dress with a white, frilly apron over it. I'm dreaming, he told himself. Yes, that's it. He rubbed his eyes, then opened them slowly again. Nothing had changed.  
  
The girl turned to look at him and smiled. "At last, you wake up, sir," she said. "I have taken the liberty of lying out your clothes for today, sir." She bobbed a slight curtsy, then went back to filling the basin with water. Ron nearly fainted at what he saw around him.  
  
A large, lavishly furnished suite sat around him. He lay in a bed with a thick, warm comforter on top and large, fluffy pillows beneath his head. He was wearing a long, white flannel nightshirt and, apparently, a flannel nightcap. There were two doors, one ajar and leading to a bathtub and washbasin, where the maid stood, filling it with steaming water. The other was open into a spacious sitting room. Another door, fitted with a sizable glass, paned window led onto a promenade deck.  
  
Absolutely bewildered, Ron allowed the maid to pull him out of bed. He slid his feet into house shoes and walked into the bathroom. He washed quickly with the warm water and soap, then took the razor the maid held out to him, looking at it curiously.  
  
"What's the matter, sir?" asked the maid.  
  
"Nothing," answered Ron after a moment, handing back the razor. "I don't think I'll shave with that today. Got any Gillettes?" The maid laughed.  
  
"Sir, always pulling practical jokes. This is a Gillette. You use this every morning." Ron gaped at her.  
  
"Who am I?" he asked rather stupidly.  
  
"You are Mister Ronald Weasley, heir to the Weasley oil fortune, sir," she answered, as if he had asked this question often to instill a feeling of respect.  
  
"And you are?" he asked again, more stupidly than before.  
  
"Ruth Baker, sir, your humble servant," she answered, bowing her head.  
  
Ron's head was spinning. He decided one last question, risking being looked upon as a raving lunatic. "Where am I?"  
  
Ruth didn't look as used to that question as she had to the others. Ron's face was puzzled and anxious. Perhaps her employer wasn't as sane as most thought, mused Ruth. She decided to answer just the same.  
  
"Aboard the R.M.S. Titanic, sir," she answered. "The grandest ship in the world. Now, would you like me to send for Charles to help you dress?"  
  
Ron's eyes glazed over. The Titanic. He was an heir to an oil fortune. This had to be a dream. The maid waited, and Ron, still thoroughly confused, said, "N- . . . no. No, thank you. I . . . I'm quite all right."  
  
Ruth looked at him curiously, bobbed another short curtsy and exited. "As you wish, sir."  
  
Ron found the clothes quickly. A nice pair of black slacks, a white shirt, and a pair of black suspenders lay neatly over the back of a chair in the sitting room. He put them on, followed by a pair of shiny black shoes and a black overcoat. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, combed his hair flat and said, "This is so weird."  
  
He couldn't believe what was going on. Best to go find Hermione and Harry, then, he thought, if they're even here.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione's shoes clicked on the hardwood deck as she raced to find her friends. The people on the decks still stared as she ran past, but she didn't care. She searched as she ran, not even thinking about what good random searching would be. As she rounded a corner on the Promenade deck, she ran headlong into another warm body.  
  
She fell backwards, catching herself on her hands and sitting down hard on the floor.  
  
"Ooo," she moaned, rubbing her backside. A large, welcoming hand extended down to help her.  
  
"Please, miss," said a voice from above her, "Let me help you."  
  
Hermione grasped the hand and was pulled to her feet. She brushed herself off and looked for the first time into the face of the person she'd run into.  
  
He had a round face, with laughing blue eyes and chocolate brown hair, and looked to be about twenty. He was smiling broadly . . . a roguish kind of smile. He was wearing the clothing of a high society male, including a top hat and blue coat. He simply looked at Hermione for a moment before asking, "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name."  
  
Hermione blinked. She wished she had done her hair. "I don't believe I said it," she said a bit coyly. Don't flirt, she told herself. "I'm Hermione. Granger." She extended a hand, palm down. It was his choice to either shake it or kiss it.  
  
He took gentle hold of her fingertips and touched her knuckles to his lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. I am Timothy Wortham."  
  
"Nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Wortham."  
  
"Please, call me Timothy."  
  
Hermione smiled. "Nice to meet you, Timothy. You can call me Hermione, if you want."  
  
Timothy smiled again. It was such an adorable smile. It reminded her a bit of Tom Cruise, only with straighter teeth. "All right, Hermione," he said. "Might I ask why exactly a pretty young lady like you is dashing about on the deck, running into people for?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. He was teasing her!  
  
"I . . . I was looking for my friends," she said, shifting a little nervously.  
  
"Ah," he said, "Is it so imperative that you find them?"  
  
"Yes!" she said sharply. He was a bit taken aback, and looked surprised at her outburst, so she recovered by saying, "It's just that . . . something has come up and I must speak to them."  
  
He offered his elbow to her, and she slipped her fingers into the crook. "You must let me help you find them, then," he said, "What are their names?"  
  
Hermione weighed the possibilities. Did they have the same names? Were they even here? Were these all agents of Voldemort? What was going on? She decided that, since she had no way of knowing, she had to risk it. "One is Mr. Harry Potter, a rather short man - er - boy, with jet black hair, emerald green eyes, and a-" should she say it? "-lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead." Timothy nodded along with her description as they walked around the deck, slowly, arm in arm. "The other is Mr. Ronald Weasley- . . ."  
  
Timothy dropped her arm immediately and turned to face her. "THE Ronald Weasley? The son of oil tycoon Arthur Weasley? The redheaded chap that's always charming the ladies?" he asked. Hermione was shocked. That sounded like Ron, except for the whole oil tycoon part.  
  
"Yes," she said, a little hesitantly. What if it wasn't Ron?  
  
"I can take you to him, then." Timothy led Hermione into a doorway and down a flight of stairs. She knew immediately where she was.  
  
"This is the Grand Staircase," she said, mostly to herself as they descended the stairs.  
  
"Of course," said Timothy. He led her through another door lined with doors labeled as B-deck cabins. He stopped in front of B-14 and rapped politely.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ron froze with his hand on the doorknob. Dear Lord, someone had just knocked. He crossed his fingers mentally and turned the knob to open it.  
  
A brown-haired man and a bushy-haired brunette stood in front of him. Ron did a double take to the brunette, recognizing the bushy hair and bright eyes.  
  
"Hermione?" he gasped.  
  
"Ron?" asked the brunette, equally surprised.  
  
"I see the young lady was telling the truth, then," said the man beside her.  
  
"Yes . . ." breathed Ron, still staring at Hermione. He then turned his attention to the man. "And you are?"  
  
"Timothy Wortham, sir," he said, tipping his hat and extending a hand. Ron shook it warmly, and Timothy said, "Miss Hermione told me that she has some urgent business to discuss with you."  
  
"Yes . . . o-o-of course," stammered Ron. He stepped back a little to let in Hermione.  
  
As she walked inside, Timothy said, "I hope this first meeting isn't our last, Miss Hermione." Hermione turned to him and smiled.  
  
"As do I."  
  
Ron shut the door and turned to Hermione. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked.  
  
"Shh, Ron," hissed Hermione, "These walls aren't soundproof, you know!"  
  
"Do you know what's going on, Hermione?" he demanded again.  
  
Hermione sighed. "No," she said, sitting down in a chair and fiddling with the lace on the hem of her dress. "I just woke up, and I was here."  
  
"Same as me," said Ron, sitting as well.  
  
They thought for a moment, then each said at once, "Is Harry here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry climbed staircase after staircase, looking for a way to the boat deck, which he knew had to be there somewhere. Finally, he came to what seemed to be the main stairwell, which led upwards to a hall he had not yet been down.  
  
He emerged into the open air and looked around him. There were men and boys everywhere, dressed in the same style as him. Ladies in long, wide cotton skirts and cotton blouses were everywhere, walking about in the fresh morning air, enjoying the view of whatever body of water they were on. On a deck higher above him, men in slacks and coats walked arm in arm with ladies in long, straight skirts, some wearing hats of ludicrous size. Harry adjusted his hat and began to walk around, hoping that one of the ladies in the large skirts would be Hermione, and that a fiery red head would be visible underneath a cap like his.  
  
As he neared the back of the deck, near a curve in the railing that marked the end of the ship, he noticed a life preserver with words printed on it. He took a step closer, and his scar seared with pain for the second time that morning. He clapped a hand to his forehead and squinted, making out the black writing on the white life preserver.  
  
White Star Line, it read, R.M.S. Titanic.  
  
"Bloody hell," said Harry aloud. "What do I do now?" 


	3. The Wrong One

Ch. 3: The Wrong One  
  
  
  
  
  
"Albus," called Minerva McGonagall after the white-haired man walking down the hallway.  
  
Dumbledore stopped and turned. "Why, Minerva, you look distressed," he said, retracing his steps to her side. "Is there anything the matter?"  
  
"Have Potter and his friends arrived back yet?"  
  
"Well, no, I wasn't expecting them until later this afternoon. Why?"  
  
"I was just wondering, that's all."  
  
Dumbledore stopped walking and turned to face her. "Don't worry, Minerva. They're seventeen. They can take care of themselves."  
  
"I know," said McGonagall, "It's just . . . I don't know, Albus! They seem so helpless on their own sometimes. And with You-Know-Who . . . I just can't bear the thought of losing any of them. Especially Harry. After all we've done to save him . . ." She suddenly sniffed and passed a hand over her eyes. Dumbledore looked surprised at her reaction.  
  
"We have no cause to worry," he said. "Unless . . . Minerva, have you heard something that I have not?"  
  
McGonagall sighed. "I'm not sure. Sirius spoke of . . . a device that You-Know-Who has created. A device that he can use to bend time to his own will. That he can . . . how did he say it? . . . that he can use time like a place - a location. And that people can travel along it, as if from place to place . . ." She sighed again. "Sirius wasn't even sure of what he heard. Just that You-Know-Who was plotting. Again. What has Severus . . .?"  
  
"You know very well that I have not heard from Severus for a very long time," said Dumbledore. "And you are also aware that I still have full faith in him, and that whatever has kept him from returning is not of any sinister nature on his part."  
  
McGonagall nodded. But inside, she wasn't sure she completely believed what Dumbledore was saying . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
"It has worked, Wormtail. My device is successful."  
  
Wormtail bowed to his master. "Of course, my lord. You are very powerful. Anything you create will surely- . . ."  
  
"That is enough, Wormtail. Now go, before I get bored and begin to exercise my energy on you."  
  
Wormtail bowed his way out of the room. As he did so, a nearly inaudible knock came from a door opposite.  
  
"Enter, Severus," hissed Voldemort. The Potions master bowed as he came into the room, and kneeled at Voldemort's feet.  
  
"My lord, you called for me?"  
  
"Yes," said Voldemort, dragging out the single syllable for a moment, his long fingers musing over a crystal ball in his hand. "You are missed," he said simply.  
  
"Am I?"  
  
"Yes. It seems that a certain Sirius Black has heard of my device."  
  
"How could that be, lord?"  
  
"I don't know." Snape was quiet. There was something in Voldemort's tone that he didn't trust. Not that he trusted him further than he could throw him, anyway. But this was a dangerous tone. Nothing good could come of this.  
  
"Perhaps he has been spying, lord," he offered.  
  
"I have no doubts that there is a spy," said Voldemort, his fingers still working over the crystal. "But I do not think that someone as daft and clumsy as Sirius Black would be capable of such a thing."  
  
Snape nearly fainted. But no, he didn't necessarily know. Best to keep him guessing.  
  
"Perhaps I should return to Hogwarts, my lord, and watch to see who is the spy."  
  
"No, I don't think that is possible," said Voldemort. "Ask me why."  
  
Snape swallowed. He tried very hard to keep his voice even and asked, "Why, my lord?"  
  
Voldemort didn't remove either his hand or his gaze from the crystal and said, "Because I have recently come to the conclusion . . . that you are the spy."  
  
"Why my lord," said Snape, "I-I don't know- . . ."  
  
"Quiet, traitor," said Voldemort, still calmly. "You see, I have a plan for you. Yes, I shall have my fun at first, but then I have a use for a filthy thing like you."  
  
"My lord . . ."  
  
"You have no reason to speak, Severus," said Voldemort. "Lucius!" he called. Lucius Malfoy emerged from the shadows with a sinister grin on his face.  
  
"My lord." He bowed deeply.  
  
"Take this double agent scum to the dungeons. I would like him treated civilly, if that is a word within your limited vocabulary."  
  
"Of course, my lord."  
  
Lucius grabbed the neck of Snape's robes. Snape couldn't believe what was happening. If he could, he would Disapparate, risk everything, tell Albus . . . but Lucius threw him into a cell in the dungeons of Durmstrang castle and slammed the door. He was caught. A rat in a trap. And Potter . . . Potter was going to die.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So what do we do, Ron?" asked Hermione. Ron shrugged.  
  
"Well, since we're together, we can assume that Harry's probably here, too." He sighed. "And I just thought of a bigger problem."  
  
"I know," said Hermione. "If we don't find a way off of here before the Fourteenth . . ."  
  
"We're dead," they finished. Ron kicked the wall. "Why us? Why did we get thrown back in time? Was there something that we did wrong? Or was this some stupid prank?"  
  
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" said Hermione. "Stop asking me!"  
  
Ron looked a bit shocked. "I didn't mean . . ."  
  
"I'm sick of everyone acting like I have all the answers! I don't know everything!"  
  
"Then stop acting like it!" cried Ron. Hermione stared at him. Ron floundered for words.  
  
"I-I-I'm sorry, Hermione, I . . . I didn't mean it . . ."  
  
Hermione stood. "I'm just as stressed out as you are, Ron. And I don't appreciate being told I'm a know-it-all. Not anymore. I thought you'd grown up." With that she turned on her heel and left.  
  
Ron followed her to the door, letting her leave. He slammed his forehead into the wall. "I have grown up, Hermione," he whispered. "You just can't see it yet."  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry turned and left the poop deck, his scar burning continually. So he had fallen asleep in 1997, and woken up in 1912. Doesn't happen every day. And the way his scar was burning . . . He had to assume that his friends were there. He had to hope. Without a wand . . . stranded in the past on a ship that was going to sink. He stopped dead in the middle of the deck. A thought had just occurred to him.  
  
"I'm going to die," he said aloud.  
  
"Ah, now, why d'ye say that?" asked a voice from behind him.  
  
Harry whirled around, startled. A pretty, freckled, auburn haired girl stood behind him. She didn't look much older than he, with sparkling, lime green eyes and a broad, toothy smile. Harry smiled.  
  
"No reason," he answered. That could have been disastrous, he thought.  
  
The girl looked at him oddly. "Ye look a wee bit familiar," she said. "Have I seen ye anywhere before?"  
  
"I don't think you have," said Harry. He decided he'd ask her about Ron and Hermione.  
  
"Have you seen a tall, redheaded bloke around?" he asked. She tilted her head a little.  
  
"I'm a-going to need more than that," she laughed. "What do his name be?"  
  
"Ron," said Harry. "Ron Weasley."  
  
The girl blanched. "Ye art friends with Ronald Weasley?" she asked.  
  
"Well, yes, actually. Why?"  
  
"He's one-a the richest men aboard, he is!" she said. "Ye won't find him down here with us others. He's not the type to go 'a-slumming' as they say."  
  
Harry didn't know what to think. Ron, in first class? He had to be, if he was as rich as this girl said he was. Well, he was untouchable for the moment, but Hermione . . .  
  
"What about a bushy-haired brunette named Hermione?" he asked. The girl thought for a moment.  
  
"No, I'm sorry," she said, "I don't know o'her."  
  
Harry's heart fell. He turned back to the girl and said, "Well, thank you anyway." He then began to climb a staircase up to the next deck. Suddenly, a short girl in a yellow dress caught his eye on the deck above him. The first class promenade. Her bushy brown hair was blowing in the breeze, and Harry recognized her at once.  
  
"Hermione!" he called, running toward her, "Hermione!"  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione thought she heard someone calling her name. She glanced around on her deck, then movement below caught her eye. A short, skinny, third-class boy was running toward her. He pushed up his glasses on his nose, then turned his face up to her.  
  
"Hermione!" he called, black bangs visible beneath his cap.  
  
"Harry?" she breathed. "Harry!"  
  
She turned and ran to find a staircase down to his level. She found one quickly, and ran to him. She threw her arms around him.  
  
"I'm so glad I found you," said Harry.  
  
"I was worried," said Hermione.  
  
"I was afraid you weren't here." They pulled apart, and Harry stared at her a moment.  
  
"You look very pretty in that dress, Hermione," he said. She smoothed her hair self consciously.  
  
"Thank you," she said shyly. "You look rather dashing in that cap. You should wear hats more often."  
  
Now it was Harry's turn to blush. "Is Ron here?" he asked. Hermione laughed.  
  
"Yes, and you won't believe it. He's in- . . ."  
  
"First class," they said together. They laughed. Suddenly Harry looked concerned.  
  
"Hermione," he said, "Do you realize we're on the Titanic?"  
  
"Yes," she said, "And I would like to know why we're here, too."  
  
"Yeah." They began to walk around the deck together, ignoring the odd looks they were getting from others around them. They were quiet for a moment, then Harry asked, "Have you seen Ron?"  
  
"Yes," answered Hermione briskly.  
  
"Are you two fighting again?"  
  
"Not necessarily," said Hermione. Harry gave her a skeptical look. Hermione sighed and walked to the side of the deck, leaning on the railing.  
  
"He is such a git!" she said. Harry came to stand behind her. "He thinks he knows everything. I try to put up with it, I really do, it's just . . . He annoys me so much! You'd think at seventeen- . . ."  
  
"Eighteen," interjected Harry.  
  
"Eighteen, whatever. The point is, you'd think he would have grown up by now. But no, he still is hung up on whatever crap he's been hung up on his entire life. I don't know, maybe he resents me. Maybe . . ."  
  
"Hermione . . ."  
  
"He just hates his family . . ."  
  
"Hermione . . ."  
  
"Maybe he's- . . ."  
  
"Hermione!" cried Harry.  
  
"What?" demanded Hermione, whirling around to face him. He took a step toward her, brushed a piece of hair away from her face and said, "You were getting carried away again."  
  
Hermione was a bit taken aback by this display of affection and the tenderness in Harry's eyes. She simply stood and gazed into his big, beautiful emerald eyes. Suddenly, those eyes started getting closer, as Harry leaned slowly in. Their lips nearly touched when . . .  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, running quickly away.  
  
She brushed tears from her eyes as she hurried around the corner again, only this time being careful not to run into anyone. This was not what she wanted. This wasn't it at all. She didn't want this kind of attention from Harry, even though she loved him very much as a friend. No, Hermione wanted this kind of attention from a certain redheaded git sitting in first class . . . 


	4. In Times of Trouble . . .

Ch. 4: In Times of Trouble . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Ron paced on the private promenade deck outside his stateroom. He turned over all the facts in his mind, trying to weigh the situation. Suddenly a voice behind him made him turn.  
  
"Ronald!" it called, "Ron Weasley!"  
  
As he faced the direction the voice was coming from he noticed a tall, thin girl with dark brown hair walking toward him, calling his name. She approached him with a smile and stopped just in front of him.  
  
"Well, Ron, aren't you going to say hello?" she asked.  
  
"Erm, hello," he said, thoroughly confused. Her smile faltered.  
  
"Don't you remember me?" she asked. He shook his head. "Dear me, it has been a long time. Your older brother Percy attended secondary school with my fiancé, Robert Cordwin. I'm Eleanor Wothersby. Please tell me you remember." Ron was about to shake his head again, but then decided to just play along.  
  
"Oh, yes, I remember now," he said. "Little Eleanor."  
  
She laughed. "Yes, that's me," she said. "Only not so little anymore." She wiggled a diamond ring in front of him. "Don't think you still have me in your clutches, Mr. Weasley. I'm a taken woman, now." Her tone was teasing, but it seemed that she spoke of a past affair that they seemed to have had.  
  
"Well, good for you," he said, distantly. This girl was wasting his precious searching time, and he had little patience.  
  
"Just because I've rejected you, Ron, doesn't mean you have to be odd and distant," she said. "Eat with us tonight."  
  
"Is that a request or a command?" asked Ron, using a phrase of Hermione's.  
  
"A request of course," answered Eleanor. "You wouldn't think a lady so forward, would you?" She smiled coyly. "Please, eat with us."  
  
Ron thought about this. It was either eat with Eleanor and her fiancé, or be terribly lost and alone. He'd been lost and alone enough in his life.  
  
"All right," he answered. Eleanor smiled and clapped her gloved hands together.  
  
"We're at table six tonight," she said, turning and walking. "Be prompt!"  
  
Ron could have kicked himself. What was he doing? He was supposed to be finding Hermione and Harry. They needed to get home. He turned to walk back into his stateroom when he bumped into a steward carrying a message tray. Ron had an idea.  
  
"Sir!" he called, signaling the steward back. The man looked astonished at being called sir, but came anyway.  
  
"Yes, sir, is there anything I can do for you?"  
  
"Yeah," said Ron, "Can you take this message to Hermione Granger of second class?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione raced along the decks, only stopping when she was on the opposite side of the ship from Harry. She still didn't know what to do. This was too much pressure for the poor Head Girl. She was worried about her parents and family at home, she was worried about Hogwarts and what may have be happening there. The thing that frustrated her the most was that she had no idea how to fix this problem. She always had all the answers. But now she had no clue.  
  
A tap on her shoulder made her whirl around quickly. A steward stood behind her holding out a silver tray.  
  
"Hermione Granger, miss?" he asked. She nodded and he handed her a small card. Recognizing Ron's scrawl immediately, she thanked the steward and began to read it.  
  
After reading it, Hermione tucked the card away in a pocket of her dress and began to walk back to the first class staterooms.  
  
Upon reaching B-17, the room indicated in the note, she rapped politely on the door. A cheery looking girl opened it.  
  
"Oh, you must be Hermione!" she said. Hermione nodded. "Well, come in! We must find you something to wear for dinner."  
  
Hermione suddenly found herself pulled inside and the door shut and locked behind her.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hours passed. Hermione was still in the room with the girl (whose name turned out to be Eleanor), trying different dresses and hairstyles. They finally settled on their choices, and Eleanor dressed first with a bit of awkward help from Hermione. Then it was Hermione's turn. Eleanor held rather pleasant conversation while she dressed, although it was not quite the type that Hermione enjoyed.  
  
"Are you being courted by Ron?" asked Eleanor, tightening the laces on Hermione's corset.  
  
Hermione winced as the whalebone dug into her ribs. She was gripping the bedpost as tight as she could, being jolted back and forth by Eleanor tugging on the laces. She had never thought corsets would be this bad, but it was terrible. The one she wore this morning wasn't as painful as this one, but then, that had been a second-class girl's corset. She tried to forget the pain and answered, "No."  
  
"Truly?" asked Eleanor. Hermione nodded. "He speaks of you often."  
  
"Does he?" asked Hermione. She decided her nerves must have been deadened because she could barely feel the corset anymore. She couldn't breathe, but at least she didn't hurt.  
  
"Yes. It nearly isn't proper, the things he says about you, without courting you. Of course, you are of separate classes, so it only makes sense that he should admire and not seek."  
  
Hermione ignored the last comment. She couldn't believe Ron had ended up getting thrown into first class, while she was common, working second-class, which wasn't that bad, considering it was the Titanic. She decided that they must have had a history in this time as well, since obviously her Ron had only known Eleanor a day. She was incredibly curious about this, but kept her questions about it to herself. Instead, she probed further into what Ron was saying about her.  
  
"Well, what does he say?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Oh, it's not a lady's place to say," said Eleanor. She leaned closer in to Hermione and said, "But between friends, I can say that he has remarked on your beauty, which will be much enhanced when he sees you tonight, owing to my handiwork. He also says that you are very intelligent, but very ornery. He speaks of you fondly." Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.  
  
She finished dressing, with help from Eleanor, then let her newfound friend fix her hair. When the whole ordeal was through, Eleanor added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, giving them a pinkish tinge, and also added a little lipstick, making her lips look full and red. Hermione looked in the mirror and gasped.  
  
"There, love," said Eleanor, tucking a flyaway strand of hair back into place and pulling on one of her own white gloves, "No man of any station could resist you tonight. I must meet my fiancé. I'll see you in the dining room." With that she left.  
  
Hermione gazed at her reflection for a while longer. The dress Eleanor had lent her nearly fit her perfectly, and after she had been squeezed into a corset, it fit her even better. The gown itself had a pale pink satin skirt with a white pearl and gauze overlay that reached the ground and hung loosely, so she could carry it in her hand if need be. The bodice was white, with pale pink satin overlaying in places, with strings of pearls dangling from it near the waistline. The shoulders were thin, pink straps that lay off her shoulders. Eleanor had let her borrow a string of pearls, and her hair was curled expertly, and swept up in such a way that framed her face wonderfully, with a few planned curls straggling down. A circlet of silver and pearls crowned her dark brown ringlets, and a pair of diamond teardrop earrings hung from her ears. Pink satin heels that looked as if they were made for the dress graced her feet. Wow, thought Hermione, I really was born in the wrong decade.  
  
She pulled on the elbow-length white gloves that Eleanor had lain out for her, took one last look in the mirror, then exited her friend's suite and made her way to the dining room.  
  
She walked down the Grand Staircase with her overlay in one hand and the other on the railing. It was all so beautiful, as if from a dream. The sight which greeted her at the foot of the staircase made her want to laugh and gasp at the same time. She settled for a small smile, which she covered demurely with the gloved hand that held the railing. Ron Weasley stood at the foot of the stairs, wearing black tails and a black bow tie. His hair was parted on the side and slicked down. The oddest things about him were that his pants, which usually hung somewhere above his ankles, reached the tops of his shiny black shoes, and his wrists didn't poke out of his sleeves.  
  
Of course, thought Hermione, the Ron Weasley from first class would have clothes that fit. She approached him, noticing him watch her every move, but not with recognition; more with wonder.  
  
When Hermione had reached Ron, she held her hand out to him. He grasped her fingers lightly, then raised it to his lips, kissing it gently.  
  
"My dear lady," he said, "I don't believe we have met."  
  
Hermione stifled a giggle. "Ron, you git, it's me," she hissed, hoping no one heard her. Ron's jaw nearly fell to the floor, and their earlier disagreement seemed to melt away.  
  
"Hermione?" he asked, not nearly as proper as it should have been. She nodded. His jaw dropped even further. Hermione pushed it closed with her fingers.  
  
"If anyone sees you gaping at me, we're dead," she whispered. She was about to give him etiquette instructions, but he held out his elbow to her, and she accepted it.  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry set his chin in his hands. He was sitting hunched over in the bottom of a stairwell, thinking about how wonderful Hermione's dinner must be going. It was six o'clock, and Harry's cabin-mates had invited him to a party on E-deck somewhere that had begun nearly an hour ago. Beer and revelry aren't on the menu for me tonight, he thought, not while Ron is up there getting a shot at Hermione. Why was it Ron who had been thrust into first class? Was it because in the real world he had never had a taste of wealth? Why had they, conveniently, been thrown into each of the different classes? It was the Titanic after all, and if they didn't figure out a way to get home soon, Harry, at least, would die. Ron could always dress Hermione in a fancy dress of some sort and pass her off as a first class lady, and at least she'd survive, or he could make her seem his daughter, and he all she has in the world. But Ron wouldn't do that. If his friend was going to die, then so would he. And he wouldn't take the place of someone else. And Hermione would never leave either of them, so she probably wouldn't go. They were all three going to die, and magic wasn't going to be involved at all.  
  
But why would they have been put in these exact positions? If someone wanted them dead, why not put them all three together? Simple. If they had been together, they could have worked out a way off the ship. They did still have enough magic together to accomplish that. Was there someone who knew that if Ron were first class, he'd give up his spot on a lifeboat for someone else, and if Hermione were in second class, she wouldn't really be able to get a spot on the lifeboats, and if Harry were third class, he would die any way, so the other two wouldn't leave him? Was there anyone that scheming and cruel?  
  
"Yes," said Harry. Voldemort.  
  
"Lad, have ye been listenin' to me?" came the sweet Irish brogue from in front of him. Harry's eyes snapped back into focus, and the curly- haired redhead he had met up on decks was standing with her freckled face even with his pale one. Their eyes met, and, briefly, there was an unexplainable force between them. Harry dismissed it.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I asked if ye'd been listenin'," she repeated.  
  
"Oh, no, sorry."  
  
"Ach, well's about all I said 'twas ye need to be a-partying with us, me lad," she said. Her eyes flicked up to his scar and lingered there. "Ach," she said slowly and simply, squatting down in front of him. "Where's about did ye get that?" she asked.  
  
"Factory accident," he said quickly, flattening his bangs and jamming his cap down on his head. He knew enough about this era to know how to lie.  
  
"I know what ye's talkin' about, lad," she said softly, in what would have been a very sweet voice if her accent hadn't been so strong. "Me da hisself was killed in an accident. Right pushed out we was. No home, no life. Ma and the li'le ones were taken ill with a fever when we was in Dublin with kin. Died not long after. I do know what ye's talkin' about." Her pale green eyes locked with his emerald ones and she said, "Which is why ye need to come with me." She grabbed his wrist, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him to an open space, full of people dancing and drinking, a band playing, and general merriment. The Irish girl pulled him through the crowds, sat him down at a table, then grabbed two beers from a passing man. Harry looked down at the beer his new friend had given him.  
  
"Sorry," he said, "I don't drink."  
  
The girl looked at him sideways. "And ye call yeself English?" she asked, appalled. Harry nodded. She laughed and took a swig from hers. "How old are ye?" she asked.  
  
"Seventeen," he said. She smiled. "Same as me," she replied. "And what does ye name be? Can't walk around callin' us others 'you,' now, can we?"  
  
Harry smiled back. She was a bit hard to understand sometimes, but very friendly. He had to give her that. "I'm Harry," he said, "Harry Potter."  
  
"Abigail," she returned, "Abigail O'Craven. Ye can call me Abby, if ye like."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Abby."  
  
"Aye, Harry."  
  
They sat and talked, and Harry was brave enough to try his beer, which wasn't bad, actually. He didn't plan on making a habit of it, but he could drink it well enough to fit in. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad a way to die as he thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione sat in the chair that Ron pulled out for her. They were dining at a long table, along with many other first class passengers. Hermione was pleased to see Eleanor across from her, but a strange woman she didn't know was on her left. Ron sat on her right. The woman on her left turned to her and smiled.  
  
"Hello, there," she said in broad American, "I'm Molly Brown. Don't think I've seen you much. Been keeping to your cabin?" She held out her hand.  
  
Hermione shook it. "Hermione Granger. No, I haven't, actually," she answered in what she hoped was an acceptable way.  
  
"I knew our Ron wouldn't be stupid enough to keep a little apple blossom like you locked up in a stuffy stateroom," she said, chuckling. Hermione smiled. She liked this woman. She glanced over at Ron and couldn't help but notice he had a slight smile on his face. She quickly cast her eyes down to her plate.  
  
After their food had been served, a light conversation picked up, with the women gossiping slightly to each other and the men marveling at how wonderfully rich they all were. Hermione listened with great interest. Ron kept doing stupid things under the table, like kicking her and such. She ignored this.  
  
"I believe Miss Granger is joining us from second class this evening," said a very stuck up lady named Violet. Hermione nodded.  
  
"Yes, I am," she said.  
  
"How on earth did you afford that dress, then?" asked an impish little waif named Bridget.  
  
"She borrowed it from me, Gettie, if you must know," said Eleanor. "Hermione and I are quite the same size." She smiled at Hermione, and she smiled back. There were an awful lot of demure smiles being exchanged at the table that night.  
  
"Now that we've left the coast of Ireland, we should be steaming right ahead, now shouldn't we?" said Molly. "Can't be much left to see but ocean."  
  
"I don't mind," said Hermione quietly. Just then, a quite lively tune began to play from the string quartet in the corner. Ron stood and held his hand out to Hermione.  
  
"Might I have the honor of dancing with you, my dear lady?" he asked. Hermione stifled another giggle.  
  
"Of course," she answered, taking his white gloved hand in hers and letting him lead her to an open space to dance in. They were the only two dancing and the entire room was watching. Ron positioned her correctly, with one hand resting lightly on his and the other holding up her pearl overlay. When his hand slid into the small of her back, she inhaled sharply, but remained calm. Suddenly, a thought hit her. "Ron, I don't know how to dance," she whispered. He lifted her chin to look straight into his eyes and whispered back, "Don't worry. Just keep your eyes on me and relax."  
  
They danced slowly at first, then quickened with the music. Ron spun Hermione around the floor, and Hermione followed qutie well. When the music stopped, they stood staring into each other's eyes for a moment, then quickly separated. They were drawing unneeded attention to themselves. What would Harry say?  
  
They sat down to compliments from the others at their table.  
  
"I must say, Hermione," said Violet, "You did look quite at ease on the dance floor. And Ron looked quite handsome." She batted her eyelashes at him. Hermione felt she was going to be sick. Ron, however, was involved in receiving a message from an attendant that had just arrived. He unfolded it, read it, then passed it silently to Hermione.  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry finally finished his beer. The band was preparing to play a very high-spirited song. Abby ripped a piece of the hem of her green skirt (which had two layers over a three-layer, skirt-length cotton petticoat so it stuck out a bit and billowed out when she turned) and used it to tie back her unruly, curly red hair. She then grabbed Harry by the wrists and led him to the middle of the dance floor. The band picked up and she said to Harry, "Dance with me." Harry shook his head.  
  
"I don't know this," he said.  
  
"That doesn't matter, lad," she said, "Ye just listen to the music and do what ye want." Harry took her hand and placed his other one on her waist. She used her other to hold up her skirt.  
  
They took off around the floor. Harry seemed to fit right in, in his too-short trousers revealing worn, brown leather boots. His cap fit snugly on his head, making him look like a real street urchin. Abby's torn green skirt billowed out and nearly cleared a path around the dance floor, mixing with the other skirts from the other girls dancing. Her tan top was covered by a dark brown shawl tied around her shoulders, and around her waist was another brown shawl, hanging down at an angle. Her red curls bounced and her green eyes danced along with her as she and Harry traipsed around the floor, laughing merrily. Harry spun her in circles under his arm, watching her laugh. They reached a completely open spot on the floor. Hey, thought Harry, this is just like the movie. Abby hiked up her skirts and did a little dance. Harry looked at her, and in turn did his own, surprised at his ability to improvise. Then they went back together and danced together for a moment before the next couple invaded their space. The music ended a few moments later, and Abby and Harry went back to their table.  
  
After downing a whole glass of beer each, Abby grabbed Harry's wrist, stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, "Come with me." Harry followed her through the crowds of still dancing people and up the many staircases.  
  
Harry convinced Abby to stop a moment, then bribed an attendant into sending a message to Mr. Ronald Weasley of first class. After that, she led him back up onto the deck.  
  
"Look at the stars," she said, turning circles across the deck. "Aren't they the prettiest sight a body's ever seen?" Harry smiled at her as she sat down on a bench, swinging her legs and looking up at the sky. He sat beside her.  
  
"Not the prettiest," he said, looking at her. She looked down from the stars and their green eyes locked again, and there was again that unexplainable force. Suddenly, Harry took her hand and said, "I know it isn't proper, but . . ." Abby cut him off by gently placing a hand on each of his cheeks, then she leaned in and kissed him softly. They kissed sweetly for a solid minute, then broke apart. Harry looked slightly shocked.  
  
"I'm sorry, lad," she said, "That was bad o'me, I know. But, that is what ye wanted to ask, aye?"  
  
Harry smiled. "Aye," he whispered, "It's just that . . . it was my first time."  
  
"That was mine, too," she said.  
  
"Well," said Harry, "Why not give it another go?"  
  
Abby smiled. "I wouldn't say no," she said, leaning in. Their lips met, slowly, sweetly kissing again. Harry cursed himself. Why in the hell was he falling for this girl? 


End file.
